Silence
by Katt9966
Summary: A dark deathfic. A series 3 tag.


Title: - Silence.

Author: - Katt.

E-mail: - kattanonhotmail.com

Rating: - R.

Feedback: - Like it or loathe it let me know.

Archive: -Archived at the Shield Fanfiction Archive.

Disclaimer: - I don't own any of the characters of The Shield, they all belong to Shawn Ryan and FX.

Silence.

He'd never have heard. Even if he'd shouted out Dutch would never have heard him. The police chopper overhead, its searchlight dancing over the buildings, the cars, the crowd, it made too much noise. He'd never have heard.

Besides he hadn't had time --- had he? It was all so fast. The silver, metal glint as the man stepped out of the crowd, and strode towards Dutch. It had caught his eye, but even as his brain tried to identify it, it had been too late.

He'd seen Dutch turn towards the man. A frown on his face, a question on his lips, and then that flash of metal caught light that Dutch hadn't seen. A long sweeping arc of cool, gleaming metal. A ten inch butcher knife, sharp and silent. He'd seen it slicing through the air before it sliced its way through cloth, and skin, and muscle. A smooth, fluid motion, relentlessly sinking deeper.

Dutch had frozen looking down, his eyes wide with surprise. His left hand had risen and grasped the man's shoulder as the blade had been swiftly withdrawn, only to be thrust forward again without hesitation.

Dutch's right hand had flailed at his side, trying to find his gun, his grip on the man's shoulder tightening, the material of his sweater bunching into Dutch's hand.

Still he hadn't shouted, still he didn't move, still he didn't reach for his own gun. No one would've heard him; he was too far away.

Others had been closer. Noise, commotion as the man was disarmed and dragged away. Hands lowered Dutch to the ground. Shouts echoing around him, calls for help, for an ambulance. Officers rushing past him, faces grim. Only now did his feet move, seemingly of their own accord, and then he was standing there. Still just observing quietly.

Blood, Jesus so much blood, it was everywhere. Dutch's shirt was no longer pale blue, but now bright red. Blood glistening on the ground, pooling warm and sticky. Lem knelt next to Dutch not noticing the warm blood soaking into his trousers as he did so. Lem's large hands held over the wounds in Dutch's stomach. Trying to keep all that blood inside, failing as it bubbled up between his fingers.

Dutch's eyes squeezed shut, his mouth a grim line, groans of pain from deep in his throat. The chopper hovering overhead, it's intense beam of light illuminating the scene like a tableau.

Sirens getting closer, shouting, pushing, Lem gone, paramedics there.

Lem standing next to him, shaking, the minute tremors of his body could be felt where Lem's arm was pressed up against his. Lem reaching up with a shaking hand, and running it nervously though his hair turning it red, forgetting for a moment all the blood on his hands. It looked as though he'd washed his hands in blood. On his hands, his wrists, a streak of crimson across one cheek, spiky blond strands now coloured in gore.

The bitter tang of blood reaching his nostrils, making gorge rise up in his throat.

The paramedics working, shouting numbers and incomprehensible words back and forth at each other. Their latex gloves soon soaked in red, their movements becoming more urgent, their voices sounding loud and strained.

Dutch's eyes open and staring up into his. Eyes filled with pain and fear, boring into his soul searching out the truth. Then the light in them dimming, something fundamental slowly leeching away, leaving them empty and dead.

He had to turn away, walk away. Dutch had bled to death in a dirty, stinking back alley while he'd watched still and silent.

It was a problem solved, a problem gone away. No need now to worry about Dutch finding out the truth. It was fate, he hadn't had to do anything, Dutch wasn't another Terry, he wasn't responsible.

If he'd shouted Dutch would never have heard him. By the time he'd realised the man had a knife it was too late. He'd been too far away to help. It hadn't been his fault; he couldn't have helped Dutch.

Vic felt a new shroud of darkness envelop his soul, and he wondered if he kept repeating those lies if one day he'd believe them?


End file.
